


Purple Cake Fluff

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Series: Purple Cake Fluff [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baking, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Public Display of Affection, confused!Clint, suggestive licking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 07:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: This was supposed to be a practice apology cake. Clint wasn’t supposed to know about it.





	Purple Cake Fluff

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dear Santa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17193149) by [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB). 



> This is a continuation of Dear Santa and a result of a conversation with Kangofu_CB in the comments.
> 
> Never bake while wearing black.  
> Bucky is using "Vanilla Purple Cake with Lemon Buttercream" on the Sweet and Savory Meals website.  
> https://sweetandsavorymeals.com/vanilla-purple-cake-with-lemon-buttercream/
> 
> Edit 1/25/19:   
> Disclaimer:   
> I have never watched Call Me By Your Name. I literally found it on a list of Hanukkah movies. Bonus points for mlm. I lose research points for not watching it, or being aware of the debate surrounding it when I mentioned it in this fic. You can take it out of my pay. 
> 
> Double down:  
> I stand by it, though: the leads in Call Me By Your Name are both adults, and I saw no indication of consent issues in the reaction video I watched. If you believe age difference BETWEEN ADULTS results in consent issues (?!?), then please consider: these superhero couples each have an even bigger age difference than shown in the movie. In fact, they'd probably find that whole debate sad and painfully hilarious.

“What’s all this?” Clint asks, dropping his gym bag and setting his bow case down more carefully. He wanders into the shared Avengers Tower kitchen.

“You gonna wash your sweaty shit?” Bucky asks. Heaven help Clint, he’s wearing the _shorts_. Again.

“I’ll get to it. You gonna answer my question?”

“I’ll get to it,” Bucky says.

Here’s the thing. He’s being all prickly and whatever… but he’s covered in powdered sugar. Bucky wears black _all_ the time. You following this?

“You look like a snowstorm at night,” Clint says, peering around Bucky’s shoulder, careful not to touch. He’s got a murder glance and a bowl of some sort of pastel batter. Correction: two bowls. The other has a lot of white powder in it. “What smells like _lemons_?”

“You don’t like lemons?” Bucky sounds pissed. _What the fuck?_

“Nooo, I pretty much like anything that’s food-shaped. Just… is it actual lemons or is it cleaner?”

Bucky snorts, elbowing Clint aside as he dumps about a third of the powder mixture into the bowl, running Tony’s top-of-the-line _mixer_ at the same time. “It’s lemons,” he says. And yeah, there’s a big bag of powdered sugar, a couple flattened sticks of butter in waxed paper, and a _zested_ and _squeezed_ lemon set off to the side.

“You know how to run a mixer?” Clint demands. Bucky shrugs, pouring cream or some shit from a measuring cup into the batter as he _mixes_.

Clint stands in the middle of the kitchen, contemplating as the second third of the powder goes in. They hadn’t actually addressed the ‘dear Santa’ letter _thing_. Instead, Clint has found himself the target of Bucky’s murder glare _much_ more often than usual, but since Bucky looks away every time Clint catches his eye, he’s guessing the intent isn’t actually murder. Especially considering Clint’s still alive. And Bucky’s talking. To him. A lot. While wearing shorts that are probably illegal. In December.

And Steve. Steve has been inviting him down when he and Bucky hang out, _smiling_ at him, hitting his pec as he laughs or elbowing him or whatever, usually shoving him toward Bucky. Clint would wonder if _Steve_ was interested in him if Steve and Sam weren’t joined at the hip.

Case in point: Steve and Sam are in the Avengers living room right over there, sprawled on one of the couches, arguing and pretending they aren’t touching in like six places, at least. Bare minimum. They don’t seem to be paying any attention beyond their couch-nest in spite of Call Me by Your Name playing in the background. They _might_ still be arguing about whether it’s a Hanukkah movie, even though Jarvis ruled it _was_ last week.

They’re not paying any mind to Clint or to Bucky, whose unexpected domesticity is… unexpected.

The powder bowl is empty. The other bowl is holding a definite _batter_. Bucky starts dropping food coloring into it with intense concentration.

“Why is your thing purple?” Clint asks.

Bucky snorts delicately. “Who said this cake is for me?”

“Did you know that”—

— “that purple is your favorite color?”

 _Friggin spies._ Clint goes for indignant. “How”—

“It’s everything you wear, Clint.” Not ‘Barton,’ not ‘Hawkeye.’ _Clint._

He blinks. “The cake is for me,” Clint says.

Bucky rolls his eyes and beats the color in. “The cake is for you,” he admits.

Clint’s grinning. “It’s not my birthday. Try again in June.”

Bucky shrugs, but the lack of murder-face is kinda sweet.

“So why are you baking me a cake?”

“Rather not say,” Bucky says.

“Uh, huh,” Clint says. He manages to shut up and watch Bucky pour the batter into the parchment-lined pan and get it into the oven.

“I know you sprayed that parchment!” Sam calls from the living room.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yes, mother,” he calls back.

“Okay,” Clint says, “tell me anyway.”

“There wasn’t a comma in the recipe,” Bucky says. Which is, can Clint point out here, confusing as _fuck_. Bucky shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Why the cake, Bucky. I’m pretty sure I haven’t been a good boy this year.” And _that’s_ a little too close to what they’re _not_ talking about. Oops.

“Because I called you a disaster archer.”

“You don’t have to bake because of that. I _am_ a disaster and _also_ an archer.”

Bucky smirks at him. “ _That_ is why I’m making a cake.”

“You’re making a cake because I’m a disaster?”

“I’m making a cake because you _think_ you’re a disaster.” The murder glare is much less effective with all the powdered sugar. Seriously, it’s everywhere.

“Like you don’t have front-row seats to the current example,” Clint says. Goddamnit, why’s Bucky wearing the shorts again? It’s _really_ hard for Clint to concentrate when Bucky’s doing anything in the shorts. Especially when he’s looking at Clint like that.

Bucky frowns, which doesn’t help. “What are you talking about.”

“Look, you gave me a green light, and I just… froze.”

Bucky raises a silent eyebrow at him and dumps the well-scraped bowl into the sinkful of soapy water.

“Shit. You know what I mean. I wasn’t mad. I was disastering harder. _Am_ disastering harder.”

“Yeah, Barton, the cake’s still for you.” Bucky’s holding the scraper and the two mixer beaters. “Unless you don’t want it.” He gets that pissed look, which Clint _realizes_ is some type of worry.

Bucky wants him to want the cake. It _matters_ to Bucky. Clint gets a giddy rush, even though he’s downgraded to ‘Barton’ again.

“I’ll take it,” Clint says, snagging a beater. “It’s purple.” He licks said purple batter from the beater, glancing at Bucky but mostly concentrating on the batter. It’s vanilla, but like, good vanilla.

“That’s got raw eggs in it,” Bucky points out.

“But it tastes so good!” Clint teases, licking up a tine to get a big lump of the batter while locking eyes with him.

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath, takes two steps to pin Clint against the counter, sets the beaters and scraper on the counter, and kisses him. Slowly. Thoroughly. It leaves Clint breathless. When he’s done, he stays there. Clint’s eye is drawn to the pulse in Bucky’s powder-sugar-coated neck. All that powdered sugar has got to be… itchy or something, right?

“Here, let me get that for you,” Clint says, leaning in to lick the sugar off. Instead of sweet, the powder is bland and drying to the point of disgusting. Not sugar: flour.

Clint gags and pushes Bucky away, diving for a glass of water. Bucky throws his head back and laughs. The line of his throat, the rare _sound_ of his laugh. Clint grins around his glass as Sam passes neatly-folded bills to a smirking Steve.

**Author's Note:**

> Sam taught Bucky how to use the mixer.


End file.
